SuperWhoLock: A Crossover
by MajesticTaySlime
Summary: This is my first attempt at a crossover, so why not do one of the most famous in fandom history? I have not tackled this idea alone, however. My friend has not only been my soundboard but has also been my co-author. We hope you guys enjoy this as much as we did writing it! (Feel free to leave suggested shenanigans in the comments!)
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, don't you dare," John clutched the card in his hand, glaring at his flatmate with a stare colder than ice. Sherlock stared back at him, his expression blank excluding the unmistakable twinkle of mischief in his eyes. He moved his hands to a position similar to that of a prayer, his fingers resting just below his nose. He hummed quietly, actively fighting the smile away from his lips while he pretended to debate the decision that was presented to him.

"I think," He said, making sure to sound hesitant. He had long since made up his mind, but John didn't have to know that fact, "that I will purchase Mayfair for four hundred pounds."

"I hate you," John said after a moment's hesitation. The anger was fairly real in his voice; the doctor tended to take competitions of any sort very seriously. His hand shot out, forking over the last of the dark blue properties and demanding payment. John had elected to play as the banker, as Sherlock was fairly new to the game of Monopoly.

Sherlock let his smirk slip as he gently took his card and handed over the money. John snatched up the dice, not before releasing a sigh through his nose and noticeably calming, and tossed them onto the board. He moved his piece and landed on an unowned property. His whole attitude changed, his expression shifting to a much more mischievous one. He looked at Sherlock, a smile prominent on his face.

"Well, would you look at that."

"John," Sherlock said, a note of pleading in his voice. John had landed on the last space that Sherlock needed to complete a set and begin building his empire. John counted his money quickly, his smile growing. He had just enough.

"I'm going to buy Oxford Street for three hundred pounds." He announced, snatching the property card and paying himself. Sherlock grumbled, putting on a pout.

"It's called karma," John said, playing with the card with his fingers, "you better get used to it. She's a real b-"

Suddenly, the door of their flat burst open so hard it almost flew off its hinges. The men jumped to their feet, shocked but ready for a fight. Their jaws dropped when they saw who stood in the doorframe.

A young girl, no more than 9, stood with good posture. She wore a light pink dress with darker pink lace trimmings and a belt in the same color. She had a simple ribbon working as a headband the same pale color as the dress sitting in her long, straight, black hair. She had a pale complexion and blue eyes. She moved forward.

"I need your help." She said, demanding rather than asking. John, nerves easing, laughed to Sherlock and the child.

"What could you possibly need?" The doctor pushed. The detective, though, was lost in thought.

"John, come to speak with me in the kitchen." He turned to the girl. "You however, may take a seat." He pointed to the short leather chair they left for clients. The doctor followed Sherlock into the kitchen, confused. Why would Sherlock need to speak to him privately over a child? The door to the kitchen closed; Watson sighed at the head salivating on the table.

"I thought you'd already done that experiment." Sherlock glided to the decapitation and gazed into the mouth while prodding it open with a pen found on the table.

"Inconclusive," Sherlock said simply. John shook his head.

"My sister gave me that." He pointed out dryly, gesturing to the pen. Sherlock, still prodding, didn't need to face him.

"Yes, you haven't seen her in months, or at that even attempted to contact her. If your sister truly concerned you, you would have done so by now." Sherlock replied, still busy observing the inside of the dead man's mouth. John, having half expected a response of the sort, fought a half smile as Sherlock turned to face him.

"Why do we need to meet in here over the matter of a little girl?" John asked, changing the subject entirely.

"I can't read her."

"What do you mean 'you can't read her?' You can read everyone!"

"Obviously not everyone if I have failed to read a child. Her clothes are upper middle class but she is clean in some spots and dirty in others. There is a spot on her dress in which was recently scrubbed thoroughly in a pattern in which someone spilled something on her dress. She also has dirt under her nails and a nest of knots in her the left-right side of her hair. Her shoulder is also displaced on her left side…"

John looked at the detective, spacing out a little as he listed what he noticed. After a couple of seconds, he interrupted.

"Yeah, but, other than that, what makes her different from any other client? We've had younger clients before." He points out. Sherlock doesn't look up. He sets the pen back on the table and stares at the head in front of him.

"She has been sleeping outside for two days by the displacement in her shoulder and knots in her hair. But in a sleeping bag leaving her dress unaffected. Her dress is new and moderately priced, with a budget like that she should have been able to clean and change her clothes at her home. Where are her parents? Why would they let her wear a dress like that and sleep outside, it's moderately priced but used for special occasions... The scrubbing pattern is what I don't understand… It's not normal as if a drink were to be spilled on it. There are dark red traces on it as well, which I hope aren't what they are. Not to add the dirt under her nails and the… the-" He cut off and stuck his head out the door to glimpse at the child. He pulled himself back inside and slammed the doors.

"The blisters, she was digging. John, the spots aren't juice."

John stared at Sherlock, cold horror creeping through his veins. "You think… she was burying someone?"

"I don't think. I know." Sherlock said. Without saying another word, he walked back into the main room, his steely eyes meeting the little girls. "Who was it?"

"Who?" The little girl asked with an innocent tone.

"The person you were burying," John answered, having followed Sherlock out of the kitchen. His eyes were full of a parent-like concern.

"That's not important," the girl responded like the fact that she had been burying another human being was no big deal, "what it is that I need your help, Sherlock Holmes."

Suddenly, two men burst into the flat from downstairs. They were up the stairs before Sherlock or John could even make a comment. Both men pointed shotguns at the little girl, fire burning in their eyes.

"Don't listen to her, she's a demon!" The taller of the men shouted, glancing towards the flatmates.

John reached for his own gun, pulling it out and pointing it at the taller man. "Put the guns down." He said sternly. "Now."

There was a moment of hesitation before the two men lowered their guns slowly. John kept his gun high.

"Who are you, and why are you in our flat!?" He yelled, the years from when he was a soldier visible in this stance. The man who spoke first had shoulder length dark brown hair. He was tall, and when compared to John, a giant. He wore flannel in layers and jeans with boots, noticeably American. His companion was also tall but shorter by a few inches and about the height of Sherlock, but still intimidating against the man. The shorter of the men wore a leather jacket with a t-shirt underneath, also in jeans and boots. His hair was a light, doe brown and eyes candy green. The men had their guns pressed against the girl's back, out of John's concentrated view for the moment.

"My name is Sam Winchester, this is my brother Dean. We are hunters, we-" The man called Dean interrupted.

"We kill sons of bitches like this." Sherlock faced Dean.

"A child? There are no such things as demons. I'm sure you're here to tell us that ghosts, angels, and even God and the Devil exist too now aren't you." The detective retorted, mocking the men. Sam swallowed before responding.

"Actually yes-"

"And that's enough of that." spoke the 'Demon'. She looked at the brothers,

"You don't happen to know where Crowley is, or even your pet angel. Yes…angel radio would be useful right now." The boys looked at the girl. Dean raised his gun and pushed the end of it into her head. John's aim moved swiftly, his eyes dead set on Dean.

"Why do you need them, Lailah?" He asked, a growl in his voice. The girl didn't look at him, a smirk on her lips. Instead, her eyes met John's. She masked her previous exterior with a terrified expression, staring at the soldier with pleading eyes.

"Please don't let him hurt me. I'm scared," She whimpered. John reacted instantly. His breathing grew eerily calm, the panicked look in his eyes hardening to one of cold determination. He cocked his gun.

"I said put the guns down." Something in his voice must have hit Sam hard because he set his gun on the floor and raised his hands.

"Chill, man, we don't want any trouble," Sam said, trying to diffuse the situation. Dean just glared at John.

"You think I'm gonna listen to some short blond with a pistol? This girl is a demon, and if you think I'm going to let my guard down for a second you have another think coming." He said, cocking his own gun.

Sherlock could see that John was dangerously close to pulling the trigger. He had seen the face that John wore before, the most notable of times being when he had shot the cabby after they first met. He put his hand on John's arm gently. "John…"

John didn't look at his flatmate, completely separated from everything that didn't involve saving this girl's life. "Last warning." He stated simply.

"Dean, he's serious," Sam warned. Dean kept his eyes locked on the shorter man, not moving a muscle.

"So am I."


	2. Chapter 2

John shot. The bullet pierced through Dean's shoulder, ripping through leather and flesh and burying itself in the wall behind the hunter. Dean cursed loudly and dropped his gun, his hand flying to his shoulder. John acted instantly, scooping the girl into his arms and backing towards Sherlock, angling himself so that the girl was almost behind him.

Sam rushed to his brother as he crumpled to the floor. Dean was still cursing, gripping his shoulder tightly. Blood ran through his fingers and onto the floor.

"Dean! Are you ok?!" Sam asked, moving his brother's hand so that he could look at the wound. Dean shot a look at John that would have dropped the doctor dead if looks could kill.

A loud whooshing sound suddenly filled the room. Everyone froze. The sound was coming from the kitchen, a sudden draft blowing papers off tables and ruffling everyone's hair. Slowly, everyone turned their heads to the kitchen. John gasped. Sherlock stiffened.

A big blue police public call box from the 1950's was sitting delicately in the kitchen, tucked neatly into a corner.

"That's not possible." Sherlock breathed. John stood still in shock. He blinked multiple times before raising a hand and rubbing his eyes, only to open them and still see the box. One of the front doors creaked open the wrong way. A man stepped out.

The man wore a tan brown jacket with leather patches over the elbows. The simple yet dressy undershirt was accented by a dark blue bow tie that was secured snugly around his neck. Nestled in his brown hair sat a bright red fez with a golden tassel. The man looked around briefly before saying, "Oops. Wrong room."

Two other people stepped out of the box, a redheaded woman and another brown-haired man. The redhead had her arms crossed and was observing her surroundings curiously. The other man was doing the same but seemed more tentative.

It took the trio a few moments to realize that other people were in the room. The man with the fez grinned widely. "Ello!" He greeted, doing a little bow. "Sorry about this, TARDIS is a bit on the fritz lately. We'll be out of your hair in a few ticks."

"Is… is that a phone booth?" Dean asked, fear and confusion clear in his voice. The more tentative man looked over at him and instantly noticed his shoulder. Saying something about being a nurse, he kneeled beside Dean and gently removed his hand from the wound. Dean let him, still in a state of utter shock.

"Doctor, he's been shot," The man said, taking a close look at Dean's shoulder. "I'm Rory by the way."

"What do you mean doctor?" John asked, ignoring the nurse's introduction. "You don't look like a doctor."

"Neither do you." Sherlock and the man with the fez said in unison. They stared at each other for a moment before the 'Doctor' made his way over to Dean, observing over Rory's shoulder.

"So, you're a doctor too, yeah?" The Doctor asked John over his shoulder. John just stared at him and slowly nodded. "Well, do you feel like helping out any or are you just going to let this nice man bleed out?"

"U-um, I…" John trailed off then shook his head to clear it. "I'm the one who shot him."

The Doctor stood instantly, spinning on his heels and approaching John with a hardened look in his eyes. John swallowed, facing the taller man bravely as he was towered over. The grip on his pistol tightened at the Doctor drew closer.

The Doctor reached down and took the barrel of the gun, wrenching it from John's hand. Without looking away from the soldier, he threw the gun at the window, shattering the glass in the process.

"No one will be shooting anyone, thank you." The Doctor said sternly. After a moment of silence, he spun on his heels and went back to Dean. John released a breath he wasn't aware he was holding.

As the Doctor and Rory hovered over Dean, Sam noticed something. "Where'd the girl go?"

"What girl?" The asked the Doctor. John glanced down and around himself, cursing softly. The Doctor spun around and scanned the room, finding the child by the window.

"Oh, that girl! Oh, yes. You're not human are you." He began to inspect her closer, circling the child. "But what are you? You have all the parts for a human, but... you're empty." He narrowed his eyes and met hers. A gruff, yet weak voice echoed from across the room, Dean was still bleeding.

"That's because the son of a bitch is a demon who we've been hunting for months, isn't that right Lailah?" Dean coughed. The girl locked eyes with the man in the fez.

"My vessel is human, you've had experiences with vessels before you know how they work. You've had 12, isn't that correct? This is my 858th. Their bodies can't hold me. This is my 5th one since the hunters over there have begun tracking me." She said, nodding her head at the brothers.

"This one is noticeably the best so far. It's funny, you wouldn't expect that from a child. I believe she might actually last for a good month." All the people and alien glared in cold blood at the girl. The redhead woman was the first to speak.

"Demons aren't real. Who are you? What happened to the girl you're possessing?"

"She's dead. No need to worry about her anymore." Spoke Laihah. Sam and Dean exchanged empty looks while John shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. Sherlock had his eyes locked on the girl, no doubt deducing everything he possibly could about her.

"The sooner you accept that demons, monsters, and everything that goes bump in the night is real, the easier this will be. What are all of you anyway? We haven't seen anything like you or your 'TARDIS'... Are you an angel that went rogue?" Sam, who had torn a blanket and wrapped it around his brother's arm, questioned. The Doctor responded almost immediately.

"I'm an alien, I suppose. I'm from the planet Gallifrey and I've been alive for 1,643 years. My planet was destroyed, so I help others… I'm the last of my race. I've tended to favor Earth, though; you're simple creatures. But never have I meet anything 'supernatural.' May I?" He asked the girl, indicating to her arm to inspect.

"Don't touch me." The girl hissed. Her eyes turned pure black for a mere blink. Everyone in the room but the brothers and the child gasped, the loudest being Sherlock Holmes. He stumbled backward, his mind reeling.

"You're not possible. NONE OF THIS IS POSSIBLE." He quickly grabbed John's shoulders. "MYCROFT PUT YOU UP TO THIS!" He accused. "HOW DID YOU DO IT? DID YOU DO IT TO SEE IF I FOUND THE HEROIN STASH?!"

John, noticeably shaken, spoke quietly. "No, I'm just as clueless as you…"

"See? We told you so!" Yelled Dean. "Now help us take care of it!"

"Ok, ok, everyone just calm down." The nurse said, raising his hands in a calming manner. "If anyone is going to do anything, it will be introducing themselves. I'm Rory, as I said earlier," he said, pointing to his chest, "and this is my wife, Amy." He gestured to the redhead, who waved upon being called out.

"My name is Sam Winchester and this is my brother, Dean," Sam announced, still hovering close to his injured brother.

"I'm the Doctor, as most of you know by now." The Doctor said, announcing himself with a wide smile.

John took a deep breath, attempting and ultimately failing to calm himself. "Dr. John Watson. This is my friend Sherlock." He said, motioning to himself then to the still internally panicking Sherlock. "I swear he's usually much more collected than this, but… well, you know." John straightened his rumpled jumper awkwardly, clearing his throat as he did so.

Rory nodded to him in understanding. Then, he clasped his hands together. "Alright, now that that's settled…" He trailed off, turning to the Doctor. "What are we doing again?"

"How about helping this man out?" Amy reminded him, kneeling next to Dean, "Dean, was it?"

"Well," Dean smirked, a flirty tone in his voice, "you can call me anything you like, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweetheart," Amy responded coldly, backing up a bit to let Rory through to continue his examination. Dean winced slightly as his wound was exposed once again.

"Oh, come on, sugar. How about after all this is over, you and I go to the bar for a drink or two? You know, just the two-OW!" Dean cut himself off as pain shot through his shoulder. He turned to Rory, growling, "What the heck are you doing over there?!"

"Oh, sorry," Rory murmured, voice portraying no emotion, "just don't appreciate you hitting on my wife." The last word held some malice. Dean took the hint, huffing and going silent.

Silence filled the room for a few moments. John cleared his throat awkwardly before saying, "So, um, shall I prepare some tea?"

The Doctor spun on his heels to face the soldier. He smiled warmly. "Yes, please do." John nodded, smiling politely back at him. Then, he walked into the kitchen rather stiffly. Soon, the resumed silence was filled with the gentle clinking that followed the preparation of tea.

Rory broke the near silence next. "It looks like the bullet went right through. All I need to do is clean the wound and wrap it up properly, then you should be good to go." He looked to Amy. "Could you go ask John if he has a first-aid kit?"

Amy nodded, trotting to the kitchen where she found the blond man filling some mugs. He jumped slightly on her approach.

"Sorry, didn't hear you at first." He muttered, looking fairly troubled and very tired. Amy felt sympathy for him. He had been forced to swallow a lot of unnerving information in just less than an hour, and his flatmate was obviously no help to the situation.

"Um, do you have a first-aid kit around here?" She asked, leaning on the counter. John nodded and left the mugs, exiting the kitchen without a word. He returned shortly, carrying a red and white box in his hands.

"Thanks," Amy said, taking the box from him with a smile. John smiled back at her out of politeness. Amy debated asking him if he was ok but decided against it. Instead, she left him to his tea and went back into the living room.

As Amy delivered the first-aid kit to Rory, Sherlock, who had seated himself shortly after John went into the kitchen, sprang to his feet and began frantically moving things. The Doctor looked at him curiously.

"What are you looking for?" The Doctor asked, watching the detective as he threw things around.

"Nicotine patches," Sherlock replied breathlessly. He continued searching, muttering something about a five patch problem. "JOHN!" Sherlock screamed, throwing things more violently now. "WHERE IS MY 21 MILLIGRAM STASH?"

"I'm not telling you, Sherlock." John's exasperated voice sounded from the kitchen. "You've been doing so good, why stop now?"

"I WOULD THINK THAT WOULD BE OBVIOUS!" Sherlock shouted back angrily. The Doctor dodged books and other things that whizzed by his head. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders. Spinning the detective around, the Time Lord looked him in the eyes.

"Stop. If you apply five patches like you say you're going to, you will overdose and probably die." The Doctor said sternly. He gently sat Sherlock back down, patting him on the head and draping part of the torn blanket over his head. Amy stared at the scene for a moment. She gave a confused look to the Doctor and an indication with her hands pointing at the detective. The Doctor responded with a hush and a statement.

"He's in shock, he'll be just fine… in a few hours… or months."

"I am _not_ in shock! I'm perfectly _fine_!" Sherlock, voice muffled by the blanket, protested. John then stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Sherlock! Mind palace!"

"Yes… mind palace… I'll be back in a few minutes…" Sherlock mumbled in return then became silent.

"Umm, John…" Sam started, "what is a mind palace, and is he ok?" John emerged holding a tray of tea cups and a kettle in his hands.

"It's where all of his memories and knowledge is stored," John replied simply, setting the tray down and falling into his chair. He takes a tea mug, swirling the creamy liquid absentmindedly.

"How long does he stay like that?" Rory asked, looking concerned. John shrugged and took a long drink.

"It depends. Usually about 45 minutes. This time though, it'll probably be about an hour and a half, maybe two." John stared into his mug. Then, he chuckled dryly. "He usually doesn't even notice when I go out. He'll come out of it and talk to himself."

Amy exchanged a look with Rory. After a moment of quiet, the Doctor clapped.

"I'm starving," he announced, "how about we go get dinner? I know this amazing place just a few ticks away."

John got up, setting his cup down and grabbing a coat. "I'll get a cab." He offered, then hesitated. "Actually, we might need two…"

"Nonsense!" The Doctor proclaims, "the best ride in the galaxy is in your kitchen!"

"Right… I forgot about that." said Dean "Normally, I would be freaking out right about now, but I'm starving and this day can't get any stranger."

"That would be where you're wrong," Rory responded. Dean swallowed nervously.

The Doctor marched over to the TARDIS and waved everyone over with a knowing smile. The three that were unfamiliar with the TARDIS approached tentatively, apprehensive about what was going to happen.

"Are you ready?" The Doctor asked, his smile growing more and more. The three looked at each other, then back at the Doctor. Taking that as a yes, the Doctor snapped his fingers and both doors opened.

Sam and Dean gaped at the sight. Sam rubbed his eyes, blinking a few times to see if what was before him was real. Dean kept mumbling about how this shouldn't be possible. John, however, just took a very deep breath and said, "Ok," before walking in.

"That was an… unexpected reaction." The Doctor said, sounding disappointed. "No one said-"

"It's bigger on the inside..." Sam murmured.


	3. Chapter 3

After Sam and Dean had been ushered in, the Doctor began working. He flipped a switch here, pressed a button there, and so on. John sat back and watched silently, rubbing his temples in an effort to sooth his rising headache. Rory watched the Winchester brothers, not quite sure what to do with them. Amy kept sneaking glances at John.

"Do you think he's ok?" Amy whispered to Rory. Rory followed her gaze and shrugged.

"I dunno, it's a lot to take in in a short amount of time. Why are you so concerned?" Rory's voice was mostly curious, but with a slight tone of jealousy. Amy rolled her eyes and shoved him a bit.

"I'm a mom! What, I'm not allowed to be concerned about other people?"

"Considering that Dean fellow was flirting with you, I feel I have the right to be a little protective." Rory countered playfully, wrapping his arm around his wife. Amy leaned into him affectionately, a smile curling her lips.

"Oh, ok, fine. But only because you're so darn cute about it." Amy teased.

"We're here!" The Doctor announced, stopping the TARDIS before rushing toward the doors. He threw them open to reveal a crowded street. Just a few yards away was a restaurant.

Everyone filed out of the TARDIS and entered the restaurant, getting a table for six. The barista looked worriedly at Dean's injured shoulder. Noticing this, Dean gave a short and mundane explanation for it (saying something about football), which was, of course, a lie. The group sat down, flitting through the menus and making small yet extremely awkward conversation.

Soon, a waitress arrived at the table. In an overly perky voice, she took everyone's orders. When she arrived on John, he just shook his head, giving her a polite smile. The waitress nodded and left. Most of the group carried out small conversation, discussing what filled their lives and asking questions here and there. John, however, just silently observed, an uneasy feeling stirring his stomach.

Soon, the waitress returned with drinks. She placed a glass of water in front of John, a courtesy of the restaurant. John took a small sip and continued listening to everyone. Soon, the small conversations evolved into deep discussions littered with funny stories. As Sam and Dean went on about one of their hunts, John noticed that he was the only one who was put off by the gruesome and freaky details. He laughed dryly to himself; here he was thinking Sherlock was the craziest man he'd ever met.

Eventually, the waitress had returned with food. She laid down everyone's plates and was about to leave before Amy stopped her.

"Yes, ma'am?" The waitress asked.

"Did he order anything?" Amy asked, gesturing to the blond man across from her, who was currently lost in one of the Winchester brothers' stories. The waitress shook her head.

"Would you bring him out a plate of chips anyway, please?" Amy requested quietly. The waitress nodded with a smile before disappearing back to the kitchen.

"He's a grown man, you know," Rory muttered.

"I know," Amy said, an edge of defense in her voice. "And grown men need to eat."

"If he's not hungry, he's not hungry," Rory argued gently. "Remember when you showed me the Doctor? And the TARDIS? I didn't really feel like eating much then, either. Not to mention those two." The nurse gestured to the Winchester brothers, who were laughing about some shenanigans from their past.

He was right, Amy knew that. "I know. I'll at least give him the option." Amy concluded before starting in on her plate.

The waitress arrived soon after, placing the plate of fresh chips in front of John. The soldier looked at her in confusion.

"I didn't order any chips." He pointed out. The waitress didn't respond, instead taking his glass, refilling it, and then leaving. John stared down at the plate in confusion before tentatively taking a small bite. Amy smiled in victory, nudging Rory as John took another bite.

Suddenly, Rory realized something. "Guys?" No one seemed to hear him. "Guys!" He said, a bit louder. This caught John and Amy's attention, but no one else's.

"Hey!" Rory practically shouted. Now everyone's eyes were on him. "Whatever happened to that demon girl?"

Looks of sheer panic overtook the Winchester brothers' faces. Dean cursed before shuffling to his feet and fighting to get out of the booth the group was seated in. Rory, who was on the end, was practically shoved out of his seat to let the brothers through. They instantly bolted from the restaurant, followed swiftly by the Doctor. Amy and Rory dashed after him, leaving John alone at the abandoned table.

Grumbling, John dug some cash out from his pocket and slapped it on the table before running after them. He barely made it back to the TARDIS in time before they were on their way.

This time, the Doctor parked outside the flat. Sam and Dean burst through the doors and raced into the flat. One by one, the others followed them. As John raced through the main door, he caught sight of a very startled looking Mrs. Hudson.

"John? What's going on? What has Sherlock done this time?" She asked, stopping him at the base of the stairs.

"Nothing, Mrs. H," John said, rather breathlessly "I'll explain later. Gotta get up there."

"Wait! When did you go out? I didn't see you go!" Mrs. Hudson called as John raced up the stairs.

"I'll explain later!" He called down before bursting into the flat. The place was already a disaster. Everything that could possibly be moved had been. Books and other decorations littered the floor, a very confused-looking Sherlock standing in the middle of it all.

"John, what are they doing?" Sherlock asked, raising an arm to scratch his head. John instantly noticed three nicotine patches decorating the detective's skin. He sighed in frustration, walking over and tearing off two of the patches at once before going for the third. Sherlock jerked his arm away like an upset child.

"They're looking for the little girl. She disappeared while we were all distracted." John explained, forcefully grabbing Sherlock's wrist and tearing the last of the patches off. Sherlock pouted at him momentarily before his words sunk in.

The detective snarled at himself. "How did I not notice that?" He growled. John rolled his eyes, stuffing the patches into his pocket.

"I'm gonna check my room." He announced before ascending the stairs leading to the said place.

As he arrived at the top, John noticed the door was opened slightly. He pushed it the rest of the way open, slowly and gently. There, on his bed, stood the demon girl. In her hands was a pistol, one that she had most likely retrieved from the drawer that was now open from his nightstand.

"Hands up, soldier." The girl demanded, a slightly mocking tone in her voice. John did as he was told, the familiar feeling of adrenaline spreading through his body. Downstairs, the man heard faint shouting.

"How unfortunate," the girl continued, a small smirk curling her lips. "That detective friend of yours will be so sad. His little doctor, gone for good this time." John's heart rate accelerated drastically. "I would ask for any last words, but that's _so_ overdone. So, instead, a simple goodbye should suffice."

Footsteps were racing up the stairs. John could barely hear them over the sound of his heart in his chest. He was going to die. Many times he had felt the feeling he was then, but this time it was different. Almost more real. This was a demon, and demons didn't have a conscious to convince them not to kill. John held his breath, his racing mind beginning to calm. There was no way out this time. He just had to accept it as it was. John Watson was going to die.

Suddenly, John was taken off his feet and to the floor. A heavy weight lay on top of his back, pushing him into the floor protectively. A gunshot echoed through the room. The weight lifted from his back and another gunshot sounded. Two bodies thumped to the floor.

John rolled onto his back, sitting up frantically. On the floor near the door lay a cursing and bleeding Dean, and standing over the doctor was a steel-faced Sam, shotgun firm in his hand. The demon girl lay halfway off the bed, stunned and bleeding.

Sam glanced between the demon and his brother frantically. John got to his knees, starting towards Dean. "Get the demon, I'll take care of your brother." He told Sam, who nodded and moved to the stunned demon.

John was now kneeling over the still cursing Dean. "Hey, hey, calm down. Let me see," He coaxed, gently prying Dean's hands away from the wound in his abdomen. The doctor frowned and quickly took off his jacket. He pressed the fabric into the wound, slowing the rapid bleeding.

"We need to get you to a hospital," John murmured to himself. He glanced back over his shoulder at Sam, who had the girl pinned to the ground and was rapidly muttering words to her. The girl struggled, surprisingly strong for her current state. John watched in horror as the girl screamed, thick black smoke coming from her mouth. The smoke escaped down the stairs and the girl beneath Sam fell limp.

Sam looked back at John, their eyes meeting for a moment. "U-um, we should get him to a hospital," John said. Sam nodded, leaving the girl where she lay. He and John helped Dean to his feet. The three started down the stairs, slowly and carefully. Due to height differences, the journey down was less than desirable.

Suddenly, Rory came rushing up the stairs to meet them. "What happened? We heard gunshots!"

"We'll explain later. For now, replace John." Sam ordered. Before he could react, John was pushed back a couple steps and Rory had taken his place. Sighing, he pushed down his offense for later and followed them down. The men had laid Dean on the floor, abdomen exposed. Rory was hovering over the wound, gently moving things and doing basic nurse work. John walked over and crouched opposite him.

"We should probably get him to the hospital," Rory commented quietly, not looking up from his patient. "But what are we going to tell them?"

"I don't know." John sighed. The wound looked bad; John's jacket was barely stopping the bleeding, the bullet was undoubtedly still buried in there somewhere, and there was always the risk of infection. John and Rory looked at each other.

"You're an army doctor, yeah?"

"Yep."

"So, this is pretty familiar to you."

"Right." The two stared in silence for a moment. Then, with a nod, John turned on his heels and began to take charge.

"We need that first aid kit, wherever it is. Sam, keep him talking." He ordered. Sam nodded, crouching near Dean's head. His brother looked awful; he was pale, sweaty, and was writing in agony. Sam placed a hand on his chest.

"Hey, it's ok, you need to sit still, ok?" He murmured gently. "It'll be ok, they're getting you stitched up."

"This freakin' sucks!" Dean growled through gritted teeth. "Being shot twice in one day."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, wouldn't want to be you right now." He glanced at John and Rory, who were busy with the aid kit. John would bark an order, army experience clear in his voice. Rory would follow without the slightest hesitation. Sam watched them, admiring their ability to work together seamlessly despite knowing next to nothing about each other. A cry of pain from Dean brought his attention back.

"What the heck are they doing down there?" Dean snarled, straining to see. Sam pushed his head back down gently.

"Hey, look at me," Sam said. Dean's frightened eyes met his brother's. It was amazing to Sam how, even after all they'd been through, the Winchester's could still be that scared. "They'll be done soon, just relax."

"This is going to hurt," John announced. Almost immediately after, Dean shot up and cried in agony. Sam pushed him back down, trying to hold him still.

"I know, I know," Sam murmured, glancing around for something. "Someone get him something to bite!" He commanded over his shoulder. Within seconds, a hand was offering him something he didn't care to identify. He offered it to Dean, who sunk his teeth into it immediately.

John and Rory continued to work fervently on the man's torso. Sam kept glancing between the two and his brother, secretly willing them to work faster.

"Almost done," Rory assured, seeming to empathize with Sam's concern. Sam nodded in thanks. After another few moments of quick work on a writing body, the men were finished. They wrapped Dean's torso in thick, white bandages and began to clean up. Dean's breathing began to calm, energy draining from him.

John backed away, giving the brothers their space. He found himself standing next to Sherlock. His flatmate had watched the entire scene without batting an eye. John sighed, following the detective's gaze to the taller of the brothers.

"What about the girl?" Sherlock asked, eyes still locked on Sam.

"Dead," John said simply. Silence fell between the two for a moment. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but immediately closed it again. John raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"Nothing." Of course, this response did nothing to ease the doctor's suspicion. He examined the brothers. Sam was still close to Dean's head, rubbing soothing massages into his brother's scalp. Dean looked like he was almost asleep. Seeing the scene made John more confused. Nothing was wrong or even odd with it. He looked back at his flatmate. His expression hadn't changed.

"Ok, I don't get it." John murmured, crossing his arms in defeat. Sherlock broke his intense stare at the brothers, looking now at John. He looked confused.

"Get what?"

"What you're confused about."

"I'm not confused about anything," Sherlock said a little too defensively. John scoffed, deciding to drop the subject for now. His gaze fell back on the brothers. He stared absently, letting his mind drift. Dean had fallen asleep and Sam showed no intention of leaving his side. Everyone was quiet, letting their rapidly beating hearts calm down from the recent excitement.

A loud rapping on the door made almost everyone jump. No more did the last knock make it through the room did the door open, unveiling a very angry Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock and John reacted immediately, stepping over Dean to rush the woman out of the room and close the door before her inevitable explosion. Mrs. Hudson tore her arms out of their grip, whipping around and staring at them with a look that would frighten Satan himself.

"WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON HERE?!"

"Mrs. H, please can we take this-"

"DON'T YOU 'MRS. H' ME!" The woman screamed. John winced.

"There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. If you would just let us take you downstairs we can explain ourselves."

"Yes, please just lower your voice," John added, keeping his own voice low.

Mrs. Hudson huffed aggressively. After smoothing the front of her shirt, the descended the steps in small, quick, angry steps. The men shared a look before following her. Their steps were large and heavy compared to her's, filled with child-like guilt.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. Her small foot was tapping the floor impatiently.

"I'm waiting."

"Well… um…" John tried to start but quickly ran out of ways to make their situation sound reassuring.

"Which would you like explained first?" Sherlock asked, putting the ball back in her court. Mrs. Hudson's steely gaze turned to John, burning right through his chest and into his very soul.

"Where were you before you came rushing in like that? Who were you with? And why on EARTH was there SCREAMING up there?!"

"I, um, went out for a bite and-"

"I didn't see you leave."

"I know I-"

"What did you do, jump out the window?!"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said sternly, "let him speak."

"Well, I thought Sherlock might be in trouble so I rushed home." John finished, hoping she wouldn't catch that he only answered one of her questions.

"Johnathan Hamish Watson," he winced at the sound of his middle name. "I expected more from you. I'm not as thick as you two think. Now tell me the truth."

John sighed and began to explain the situation in full. Mrs. Hudson's expression remained stiff, making it hard for the doctor to maintain full eye contact. By the end, he felt like a child who had just been scolded and hung his head in shame. Sherlock didn't seem as affected, but John could tell from experience that the shift in his flatmate's posture meant he felt the same.

Mrs. Hudson took a deep, calming breath. "Thank you. Now, back to your friends." With that, she turned to leave.

"You… aren't upset?" Sherlock couldn't stop himself from asking.

"I never said that, dear." And she was gone. Sherlock and John looked at each other and shrugged, returning upstairs. Once they opened the door, all heads turned to them. Smirks were stifled, giggles swallowed.

"Get in a bit of trouble, eh?" Rory asked, clearing a snicker from his throat. John rolled his eyes, sighing loudly and moving to his chair.

"Yeah, just a bit." He fell into his chair, letting himself slump down into the comforting depths of the fabric. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the occasional giggle coming from the others. Sherlock silently sat in his own chair. He had his thinking face on.

"So, uh, what now?" Amy asked aloud. No one responded. No one knew.

A small breeze blew through the room. It was cool and refreshing. Following it was the sound of wings flapping. There was a presence in the room that wasn't there before. John opened his eyes and sat up. Next to Sam and Dean stood a rugged-looking man with dark hair. He wore a tan trench coat with untied belt straps hanging from it.

"Castiel," Sam greeted.

"Sam," the man said in return.


	4. Chapter 4

John silently debated with himself. Was he going to let his inner feelings of frustration and outrage out, or was he too tired? He decided he needed a nap more than to be angry and settled back down, closing his eyes once more.

John listened at this new character was questioned. When his origins came to light, the man responded that he was an angel of the Lord. He heard Sherlock shift across from him. He could guess that a wave of jumbled, confused thoughts were flooding the detective's mind. He listened for any sign of panic, but Sherlock went still. He must have gone to his mind palace.

John was just starting to doze when his phone rang. Blinking his protesting eyes open, the doctor flipped open his phone to see that Lestrade was calling. Clearing his throat, he put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock wasn't answering. I need you guys for a case."

John sighed. "Not the best time, ok?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it's not the best time."

"But-" With a snap, John's phone closed, ending the call. Immediately, it came to life with vibrations. He looked at it. Lestrade again. He tossed his phone to the floor, releasing a frustrated puff of air.

"John, come and meet Castiel," The Doctor beckoned cheerfully. John shook his head, murmuring some excuse about needing to check on something upstairs. With his brain thick with fog, the war doctor trudged up to his room and opened the door. The coppery scent of blood stung his nostrils immediately. He put his head in his hands, groaning to himself. Right. Dead body. On his bed. Yay.

Once back down the stairs, John made his way to the back of the crowd surrounding his angelic guest. As people noticed his presence and separated, giving him a path to the being,

"John Watson." He held out his hand for a shake. Castiel took it with hesitation, shaking it softly.

"I am Castiel. It is nice to meet you, John."

John thought about the fact that he was speaking to a literal angel. He decided he was too tired to worry about formalities. "You too. Welcome to London."

Outside, the sun gradually set on the horizon. The flat had been filled with idle chat, storytelling, and loads of laughter. Sherlock had retired to his room to sort out his mind palace, leaving John to be the bearer of the bad news.

"Hey, um, it's getting pretty late," the man said, breaking through the string of conversation.

"Got a spare room?" Sam asked, "I don't want to move Dean." He motioned to the body on the floor, who had been sleeping for hours.

"Not… really… you can sleep on the couch?" John rubbed his eyes, fighting his exhaustion. He didn't have enough energy to kick anyone out.

"If it's good with you, I could bring the TARDIS back up here and let people sleep in there." The Doctor said. John nodded. The Doctor snapped his fingers and, with a large racket, the TARDIS appeared in the kitchen once more.

"I do not require sleep. I also do not wish to leave Sam or Dean," Castiel said.

"That's fine just… don't do anything stupid," John said. Castiel nodded.

"I will be quiet."

As everyone got settled, John resumed his place in his chair. He heard Castiel stir for a moment before settling down as well. Every time Castiel moved, the sound of feathers followed. Probably had something to do with him being an angel. If he was honest, John couldn't have cared less that night. The war doctor was asleep before he even realized his eyes were closed.

John's dreams were full of torment. Some involved his PTSD, while others involved being chased and torn apart by demons. Needless to say, after numerous times of waking up in a cold sweat, John was done trying. He got up quietly, shuffling toward the kitchen. The dark form of the TARDIS loomed in the relatively small space. John moved around it, filling a glass with water and taking a drink. He made his way back to the sitting room and set the glass down, sighing as he sat.

"Troubles sleeping?" The soft voice of Castiel sounded from next to Dean. John had forgotten about him.

"...Yeah."

"What troubles you?"

"Dreams," John replied, standing again and moving towards the angel. In order to avoid waking anyone, he seated himself on the floor near Castiel.

"What kind of dreams?" The angel asked.

"Bad ones," John said simply. The angel frowned. This man needed his help.

"Don't worry, this won't hurt." Castiel stated. He lifted two fingers to the war doctor's head, pressing gently. Before he could protest, John collapsed into the pile of injured hunter in front of him, fast asleep. Castiel watched as, over time, John began to squirm. He placed his fingers back on the man's forehead and observed as he calmed.

The night went on as such. Once Castiel noticed that John seemed to finally be in a restful sleep, he lifted the doctor and laid him back in his chair. The angel sat back down near Dean, watching the two men as they slept. Soon, the morning sun began to glow through the windows, shining especially bright through the broken one. Castiel wondered silently what had happened to it.

The soft sound of footsteps alerted the angel of another's presence. Sherlock emerged from his room, hair ruffled and dressing gown sloppily thrown on. Castiel nodded to him as a greeting. Sherlock ignored him, instead going to the kitchen and starting up some tea. The angel put his hands in his lap awkwardly. He silently wished Dean were awake; Cas was awful in social situations.

Sherlock, cup in hand, emerged from the kitchen and sat in his chair. He took a sip from his mug, eyes meeting John's sleeping form.

"How did he sleep?"

Castiel raised his head, looking to the detective. Sherlock's eyes were still on his flatmate.

"Not well. His current state is thanks to me." Castiel commented, sensing modesty was not a problem here. Sherlock nodded, murmuring a thanks into his mug before taking another drink.

A soft ringing sound rose from Sherlock's robe pocket. He retrieved it, groaning at the screen before answering.

"Hello, brother mine."

"Lestrade called." The cold voice of Mycroft replied.

"Did he?"

"Yes. John told him that now was 'not the best time.' Care to explain?"

"I'm busy." Sherlock said simply.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"We are dealing with a serial killer here. There are six victims as of now. What could be possibly keeping you so busy?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Sherlock said, letting a smirk curl his lips. Castiel cocked his head in confusion. What was so funny about that?

"Try me."

Sherlock explained the entire situation in as accurate detail as he could remember. As he finished out his testimony, nothing but silence filled his ear. The silence lasted a good few seconds after.

"Let me talk to John." Mycroft demanded.

"He's sleeping right now. Had a rough night, the angel tells me." Castiel was alerted at the mention of himself. He wondered how this Mycroft character was taking all of this.

"Wake him. I don't care." Mycroft growled. Sherlock shrugged, walking over to John's chair. He patted the man on the cheek, only to receive a grunt and nothing more.

"It may take a while for him to wake up naturally." Castiel informed from his spot on the floor. Sherlock nodded.

"The angel tells me that it may take a while for John to wake."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, a warning tone in his voice.

"Ok, ok, fine." With that, Sherlock pocketed his phone and rounded the chair. From the back, he gripped the chair firmly and, in a fluid motion, thrust the back of the chair to the floor and almost flinging John from the seat in the process.

Now, a very angry and disheveled blond stood before Sherlock. The anger on John's face was more intense than the usual annoyance Sherlock experienced. It ranked up there with the time Sherlock faked his own death. "What?"

"My dearest brother wishes to speak with you." Sherlock said innocently, fishing his phone out of his pocket. John took it forcefully. Sherlock could see the storm building behind John's lips as he raised the phone to his ear.

"I assume I'm speaking with-"

"Bugger. Off." John snarled. Angrily, he smashed his finger on the hang up button. Immediately, the phone was alive with ringing once more.

"Sherlock, take this bloody thing away from me or I swear I will THROW IT OUT THE WINDOW!"

Sherlock took his phone back and answered it. "I told you he had a rough night."

"... I'm coming over."

"Please don't."

"I'll be there in 10, I'm calling a helicopter"

"I'll sick John on you. Trust me, he is ready to kill."

"I'm sure I can manage." A click signified Mycroft hanging up. It wasn't until then that Sherlock noticed a very fearful looking Sam sitting on the couch. The sound of creaking doors came from the kitchen, followed by the Doctor and his companions.

"What's all the yelling about?" Rory asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"My brother woke the sleeping monster that is John."

"Don't you even PRETEND THAT YOU HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THAT!" John protested, shoving an accusing finger in Sherlock's face. "You're BROTHER didn't TIP OVER MY CHAIR!"

Sam looked at Cas helplessly. Cas stared back, completely missing whatever Sam was trying to say with his look. Sam rolled his eyes and help up two fingers, putting them to his forehead. Cas pointed to Sam, mouthing 'you?'. Sam shook his head and face-palmed. He pointed to John. Castiel nodded, giving Sam a thumbs up.

"I told him-" Sherlock began to defend himself, fighting back multiple snickers.

"I couldn't give LESS OF A BLOODY DAMN TO WHAT YOU TOLD HIM! I-" Castiel appeared next to John, putting his fingers on his forehead. John was out in an instant, falling to the floor in a sleeping heap.

"Thank you," Breathed Sam. Suddenly, the sound of a helicopter began to fill the room. Wind forced through the broken window, spreading shards of glass, papers, and other things around the room. Out of the helicopter and in through the window stepped Mycroft.

Once the helicopter had left and the room was relatively quiet again, Sherlock spat, "That wasn't ten minutes."

"No." Mycroft's gaze landed on the pile of John on the floor. "Um?"

"That would be thanks to the angel." Sherlock gestured to Castiel next to him. One by one, Mycroft noticed the people in the room. As his gaze moved from body to body, his face scrunched into an expression of confusion. Then, his eyes landed on the Doctor.

"It… It's YOU!" He shouted, pointing a finger in the alien's direction. The Doctor held up his hands.

"Yes?"

"You're the Doctor, aren't you?!"

It was the Doctor's turn to look confused. "How…"

"You thought you were so clever, didn't you? Erasing yourself from every database! Smart move, but not smart enough. We managed to withstand the attack with minimal data loss. Do you know how much trouble you are and could be in if I were to take you in? Let alone when you leave and we have to clean everything up!" Mycroft was displaying behavior that Sherlock didn't have the privilege to see very often. He liked it. In fact, he wished he had some popcorn. Halfheartedly, he thought about waking John. He dismissed the thought quickly, as his own death did not sound very appealing.

"Uhm…." The Doctor looked nervous. Amy and Rory exchanged similar looks. The tension grew thick in the air, so thick in fact that Castiel hardly noticed the door creak open. Though, when the door opened, so did the scent that Sherlock longed for. Popcorn. Sherlock turned his head so quickly, you'd think it would have broken his neck. In the doorway stood a man holding a black trash bag full of popcorn. This man, though, wasn't supposed to exist. Sherlock glanced to the bag then up…

"You're dead."


	5. Chapter 5

"Clearly not," He stated bouncing on the tips of his toes. "Popcorn?"

"YOU'RE DEAD!" The man made a face and looked to Mycroft.

"Can you please tell Sherl I'm here and in the living?" Everyone in the room was stunned. There was a random man in the flat with popcorn.

"Any-who…" The man began taking small, sashaying steps forward. "I just figured I'd stop by for a chat."

"But… YOU DIED!"

The man groaned. "Sherl, give it a rest, darling. Look, I'm on my feet and - OOF!" The man had failed to notice the still sleeping Dean on the floor. His foot had caught under the hunter's injured torso, flinging him to the ground and waking Dean.

"What the frick?!" Dean sounded, struggling to sit up. The mysterious man pushed himself up with his hands.

"Oh. Hello." He stood once more, dusting himself off and retrieving his popcorn bag. He stepped over Dean and seated himself in Sherlock's chair, crossing his legs. "Anyway, continue arguing. It's exhilarating to watch!" He smiled and tossed a kernel of popcorn into his mouth, crunching loudly.

"This man is tinted…" Cas said, confused. "He's not a demon… but he's been in contact with something bad." Before this point, no one understood the severeness of this man, how truly bad Moriarty was.

"You mean my old friend Luci!" Moriarty said cheerfully. Dean shot up.

"LUCIFER!... LUCIFER, THE DEVIL, BROUGHT YOU BACK FROM _**HELL**_!"  
"Well it sure does seem that way, I wasn't going to come back for a while until I got a good old notification that Mycroft was calling you, Sherl. Then I made some popcorn and got myself down here, now please, carry on with whatever you were doing."

Everyone was silent for a moment. No one knew what to do. Sherlock was in a state of complete mental shock, his eyes locked on Moriarty. Mycroft was in a similar state. The Doctor was at a complete loss and debating whether or not it would be a good idea to slink back into the TARDIS and just leave. Castiel, Sam, and Dean were all experiencing warning bells ringing loud in their heads.

"Oh, you all are no fun." Moriarty pouted. "Oh, and wherever is your little pet, Sherlock? Off eloping with Mary? Oh… wait…" Moriarty faked a sad frown.

Sherlock stiffened. That was a sore spot. He and John didn't talk about it. Sherlock thanked… something that John was passed out on the floor for that comment.

Moriarty then noticed John's form on the floor. "Ah, he's taking a nap, the old geezer. Well, let's wake the soldier, shall we?" Moriarty clapped two times and John was awake. Confused and a bit ruffled, John pushed himself up. When he saw Moriarty, he stiffened. Sherlock swallowed, as he could guess fairly accurately the storm that was brewing inside his friend's head.

"John, ignore him." Sherlock said, reaching out to lay a hand on his flatmate's shoulder.

"You…" John's voice was barely above a whisper. "H..how are you… how did you…"

"Blah blah blah, Moriarty's alive oh my gosh! Blah blah, we know we know." Moriarty said in a mocking tone. "Now, how's our dear friend John? Things going well? Anything exciting happen in, oh, I dunno, your love life?" John's jaw clenched. "Oh, right, I forgot, your wife died recently, yeah? And it was all Sherlock's fault, wasn't it?"

"Shut. Up." John's voice was quiet. Any louder and it would have cracked.

"Did she scream? I bet she did. Sherlock, you were there, did she scream?" Moriarty turned to Sherlock, smile prominent on his face. Sherlock felt the familiar stabbing sensation of guilt hit him.

"Oh, and poor John had to hold her in his arms as the life drained from her. How hard, to watch the love of your life die in your care and know that you could have, should have stopped it, knowing there is nothing you can do to help."

"I said shut up." John was rigid. The event was playing back in his head, each horrific moment. His rising sadness began to harden into anger. Moriarty was supposed to be dead. And now here he was, talking about his dead wife as if he actually cared.

"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to make you cry," Moriarty put a hand on his chest. "Such a sad scene!" He then began throwing popcorn kernels at John, as if he was watching an upsetting moment in a movie.

"So, who exactly is this guy?" The Doctor whispered to Mycroft.

"Someone very bad." Mycroft murmured back.

Each kernel that hit the soldier's face brought him closer to the edge. A familiar moment of fury rose to his memory. He had memorized every detail on the man's face as those fingers struck his own. He hadn't dared move, for Mary's sake. But it was pointless. She died anyway. John's anger boiled in his chest, tingling through his arms and flushing into his face.

"Throw one more kernel. I dare you." John said in a hushed tone. Moriarty smirked, delicately tossing one more butter covered morsel. It struck John in the forehead and dropped to the floor.

John hadn't noticed he'd moved until his hands were around Moriarty's throat. He squeezed, pouring every amount of emotion that was in him into his hands. Moriarty's face smiled back at him. His eyes blinked to reveal two pitch black pools. Without moving a muscle, Moriarty flung John off and into the kitchen. The soldier crashing into the closed doors of the TARDIS and slid to the floor. Sherlock rushed to his friend's side immediately.

"He's a demon!" Sam cried. Castiel was instantly on guard, unsure if Sam was entirely correct. Dean rose painfully from the floor, ready for as much of a fight as he could muster.

"Well, I wouldn't say a 'demon' exactly," Moriarty rose, straightening his tie casually. "I'm much more powerful."

"What kind of deal did you make with Lucifer?" Castiel asked, a hardened tone in his voice. Moriarty turned his attention to the angel.

"He resurrected me, gave me powers, all for one tiny little favor." The man clenched his fists, feeling his power flow through his veins. Sam and Dean quietly began moving forward towards the demon.

"What kind of favor?" Castiel asked. The sound of feathers rustling filled the brief silences as the angel prepared himself for battle.

"Nothing too huge. Something that I was planning on all along. For one, rid the world of Sherlock Holmes and his pet Watson. Next, well, he didn't let me get too ahead of myself." With that, his attention was brought back to the men in the kitchen. "Speaking of you two, I should finish you off, shouldn't I?"

John, who had gotten back to his feet by then, reached for his gun at his hip. He found nothing. Right, the Doctor threw it out. Joy.

"Such a bummer that things had to end up this way." Moriarty sighed, moving forward. He sounded genuinely disappointed. "I always have loved watching you two rats scramble around, trying to solve my puzzles." Sherlock scowled, taking defensive positions next to John.

"Well, one must do what he must." Moriarty raised a hand, a solemn yet bored expression falling over his face. The flatmates braced for an attack, but it never came. Sam and Dean simultaneously leaped forward and tackled the demon, pinning him to the floor.

"Quick, get outta here!" Dean grunted. Sherlock and John nodded, making their way out of the kitchen quickly. Castiel rushed past them, a chair in his arms. He plopped it in the middle of an area of open floor. Quickly, the angel grabbed a can of spray paint and began to draw a symbol on the floor.

"Hurry up, Cas!" Sam shouted. Audible struggling came from the kitchen. Just as Castiel finished the symbol, Sam came through the room, landing in Sherlock's chair and tipping it backwards. Dean was quick to follow, crashing into his brother in a dazed heap.

"Someone help me!" Castiel ordered, practically leaping into the kitchen to wrangle the squirming demon. The Doctor reacted instantly, signalling for Rory to follow. Together, the three men dragged Moriarty out of the kitchen and into the circle on the floor. Moriarty dashed forward, out of their grasps and towards Sherlock. However, he stopped at the edge of the circle, trapped in place.

"What? What is this?" Moriarty snarled, frustration apparent.

"Devil's trap." Dean replied, rising from the floor. He wiped blood from his lip and turned his head to spit on the carpet. "You're going nowhere."

Moriarty scowled for a moment before collecting himself once more. "Fine. Could you at least bring me my popcorn?" When no one did as he requested, the demon sighed and seated himself in the chair. "Fine."

Silence filled the room. Sherlock and John hovered close together, eyes locked on Moriarty. Sam and Dean popped their joints back into place casually. Castiel did the same, the sound of feathers following his movements as usual. Moriarty himself pouted in his chair, undoubtedly planning. Mycroft had isolated himself, standing on the other end of the room. The Doctor and Rory had returned to Amy, staying close.

"If you're going to keep me locked up in here, you could at least provide some form of entertainment." Moriarty said, crossing his legs delicately.

The silence resumed. Moriarty frowned. Then, much to his delight, the door opened.

"Look, I know you said it was a bad time, but-" Lestrade snapped his mouth shut at the scene before him. He stared in silent shock at the scene for a few moments. "I… am not even going to ask. I'll be going now." With that, he turned and closed the door behind him.

"So," Amy leaned towards the Doctor, keeping her voice low, "what are we still doing here?"

"Oh, come Amy. Helping people is what we do!" The Doctor responded.

"Don't you think we're a bit… under-qualified for this?" Amy asked, gesturing towards the man seated in the chair and the angel staring intently at him.

"She does have a point, Doctor." Rory added. "Couldn't we just let them sort it out for themselves for once?"

The Doctor frowned, scanning the room once more. "I think we should stay."

"Ok, do you know anything about demons?" Amy challenged, crossing her arms. The Doctor didn't answer, looking lost in thought.

"... no…." He finally answered.

"Exactly. We're a bit out of our league on this one."

"When has that ever stopped us before?" The Doctor pointed out. His companions didn't answer; he had a point. The Doctor smiled triumphantly. "It's decided then. We stay."


End file.
